Galilee. Clive Barker

know you do.”

      “And I hate it that those sleazeballs are giving you grief, but they can’t touch you, honey. Not really. They can spit and they shout but they can’t touch you.” He squeezed her hand. “That’s my job,” he said. “Nobody gets to touch you but me.”

      She felt a subtle tremor in her body, as though his hands had reached out and stroked her between her legs. He knew what he’d done too. He passed his tongue, oh-so-lightly, over his lower lip, wetting it.

      “You want to know a secret?” he said, leaning closer to her.

      “Yes, please.”

      “They’re all afraid of us.”

      “Who?”

      “Everybody,” he said, his eyes fixed on hers. “We’re not like them, and they know it. We’re Gearys. They’re not. We’ve got power. They haven’t. That makes them afraid. So you have to let them give vent once in a while. If they didn’t do that they’d go crazy.” Rachel nodded; it made sense to her. A few months ago, it wouldn’t have done, but now it did.

      “I won’t let it bother me any more,” she said. “And if it does bother me I’ll shut up about it.”

      “You’re quite a gal, you know that?” he said. “That’s what Cadmus said about you after his birthday party.”

      “He barely spoke to me.”

      “He’s got eyes. ‘She’s quite a gal,’ he said. ‘She’s got the right stuff to be a Geary.’ He’s right. You do. And you know what? Once you’re a member of this family, nothing can hurt you. Nothing. You’re untouchable. I swear, on my life. That’s how it works when you’re a Geary. And that’s what you’re going to be in nine weeks. A Geary. Forever and always.”

       V

      Marietta just came in, and read what I’ve been writing. She was in one of her willful moods, and I should have known better, but when she asked me if she could read a little of what I’d been writing, I passed a few pages over to her. She went out onto the veranda, lit up one of my cigars, and read. I pretended to get on with my work, as though her opinion on what I’d done was inconsequential to me, but my gaze kept sliding her way, trying to interpret the expression on her face. Occasionally, she looked amused, but not for very long. Most of the time she just scanned the lines (too fast, I thought, to really be savoring the prose) her expression impassive. The longer this went on the more infuriated I became, and I was of half a mind to get up, go out onto the veranda. At last, with a little sigh, she got up and came back in, proffering the pages.

      “You write long sentences,” she remarked.

      “That’s all you can say?”

      She fished a book of matches out of her pocket, and striking one, began to rekindle her cigar. “What do you want me to say?” she shrugged. “It’s a bit gossipy, isn’t it?” She was now studying the book of matches. “And I think it’s going to be hard to follow. All those names. All those Gearys. You don’t have to go that far back, do you? I mean, who cares?”

      “It’s all context.”

      “I wonder whose number this is?” she said, still studying the book. “It’s a Raleigh number. Who the hell do I know in Raleigh?”

      “If you can’t be a little more generous, a little more constructive…”

      She looked up, and seemed to see my misery. “Oh, Eddie,” she said, with a sudden smile. “Don’t look so forlorn. I think it’s wonderful.”

      “No you don’t.”

      “I swear. I do. It’s just that weddings, you know,” her lip curled slightly. “They’re not my favorite thing.”

      “You went,” I reminded her.

      “Are you going to write about that?”

      “Absolutely.”

      She patted my cheek. “You see, that’ll liven things up a bit. How are your legs by the way?”

      “They’re fine.”

      “Total recovery?”

      “It looks that way.”

      “I wonder why she healed you after all this time?”

      “I don’t care. I’m just grateful.”

      “Zabrina said she saw you out walking.”

      “I go to see Luman every couple of days. He’s got it into his head that we should collaborate on a book when I’m finished with this.”

      “About what?”

      “Madhouses.”

      “What a bright little sunbeam he is. Ah! I know! This is Alice.” She tossed the book of matches into the air and caught it again. “Alice the blonde. She lives in Raleigh.”

      “That’s a very dirty look you’ve got in your eyes,” I observed.

      “Alice is adorable. I mean, really…sumptuous.” She picked a piece of tobacco from her teeth. “You should come out with me one of these days. We’ll go drinking. I can introduce you to the girls.”

      “I think I’d be uncomfortable.”

      “Why? Nobody’s going to make a pass at you, not in an all-girl bar.”

      “I couldn’t.”

      “You will.” She pointed the wet end of her cigar at me. “I’m going to get you out enjoying yourself.” She pocketed the book of matches. “Maybe I’ll introduce you to Alice.”

      

      Of course she left me in a stew of insecurity. My mood now perfectly foul, I retired to the kitchen, to eat my sorrows away. It was a little before one in the morning; Dwight had long since retired to bed. L’Enfant was quiet. It was a little stuffy, so I opened the windows over the sink. There was a light breeze, which was very welcome, and I stood at the sink for a few moments to let it cool my face. Then I went to the refrigerator and began to prepare a glutton’s sandwich: several slices of baked ham, slathered with mustard, some strips of braised aubergine, half a dozen sweet cherry tomatoes, sliced, and a dash of olive oil, all pressed between two slices of freshly cut rye bread.

      Feeding my face put everything in context for me. What was I hanging on Marietta’s opinion for? She was no great literary critic. This was my book, my ideas, my vision. And if she didn’t like it, that was fine by me. Her opinion was a complete irrelevancy. I didn’t just think all of this, I talked it through to myself, a mustardy mingling of words and ham.

      “Whatever are you chattering about?”

      I stopped talking, and looked over my shoulder. There, filling the doorway from side to side, was Zabrina. She was dressed in a tent of a nightgown, her face, upon which she usually puts a little paint and powder, ruddily raw. She had tiny eyes, and a wide thin-lipped mouth; Marietta called her a beady, fat frog once, in a moment of anger, and—cruel though the description may be—it fits. The only glamorous attribute she has is her hair, which is a deep, luxurious orange, and which she’s grown to waist length. Tonight she had it untied, and it fell about her shoulders and upper body like a cape.

      “I haven’t seen you in a long while,” I said to her.

      “You’ve seen me,” she said, in that odd, breathy voice of hers. “We just haven’t spoken.”

      I was about to say—that’s because you always rush away—but I held my tongue. She was a nervous creature. One wrong word and she’d be off. She went to the refrigerator and studied its contents. As usual, Dwight had left a selection of his pies and cakes for